


every time i wonder (how i'd carry on without you)

by kissmeinnewyork



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Romance, he still hasn't chosen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:34:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27646234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissmeinnewyork/pseuds/kissmeinnewyork
Summary: "We went on a mini break to Florence. It was lovely.""I'm surprised you didn't go to Rome and take a massive shit on the Pope's doorstep.""The Pope doesn't live in Rome, Claire. He lives in the Vatican.""And you only know this because you are still shagging a fucking Catholic priest!"(Six months after the wedding, he still hasn't chosen. She might have to do it for him.)
Relationships: Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying my hand at a cheeky little multi-chapter. Set six months after the wedding where the priest didn't leave and they've been fucking in secret ever since. He still has to choose at some point, though. there will be bad puns, godmother being insufferable, and another wedding (or three? maybe?) this is more an outlet for all the dialogue i have in my phone notes, so enjoy!
> 
> title - real estate by adam melchor

_“Why is she even doing this? I find it hard to believe we’re_ allowed _back in the restaurant, let alone_ wanting _to go back on our own accord.”_

She raises a neatly-plucked eyebrow at him, halfway finished with the other.

“You have met my stepmother, right? She’s a glutton for punishment. Specifically mine and Claire’s. More mine than Claire’s. She’s also the main character in her own Shakespearean melodrama—probably gets off on the poetic symmetry of it all.”

He snorts a laugh. _“Believe it or not, dear, I have met your stepmother, and it is probably up there in top three of the best things that have ever happened to me.”_

She pulls a face, dropping her tweezers. “Why?”

“ _Because if I hadn’t met her, I would never have met you. Probably.”_

His grin is giddy. She rolls her eyes, trying to hide her smile. When did they get so fucking soppy? “Okay. Enlighten me, father. What are the other two in your notorious top three?”

He hums, buttoning his shirt. _“Well, number two would have to be meeting the Pope, coming second only to your tits.”_

She faux-gasps, placing a hand across her chest. “That is scandalous! Although…” She looks down at the dress she’s chosen—more for him than anything else—and, well. Her cleavage sits on that incredibly fine line between classy and slutty. She can already see Claire’s disapproving glare.

He groans loudly, collapsing his head into his hands. _“How the fuck am I supposed to pretend for a whole evening that I haven’t seen you for six months? I can’t do it. I can’t!”_

“I don’t even know why you’re invited.” She says, reaching for some concealer. “No offence.”

_“None taken. And you know it’s because she’s fucking obsessed with me.”_

_Not the only one,_ she thinks idly. Pam is pretty damn obsessed with him as well, if the incessant text messages he receives when he’s gone for the night are anything to go by. “Maybe she needs witnesses. Based on past experience, she only invites Claire and I to dinner if she wants to relay some utterly horrific information, and now I have a track record for GBH.”

He chuckles, reaching out for the camera. His screen jolts a little as he moves from his desk to sit on his bed, lying down and relaxing against the headboard. They’ve taken to Facetiming when they’re not together, because it’s more… _creative,_ than what can be done by voice alone. She also likes to see his face, more than anything. She likes the way he looks at her. _“Oh my God—what if she’s pregnant.”_

She points her tweezers threateningly in his direction. “Don’t you fucking dare. Don’t put ideas like that in my head.”

_“Aw, would you not be excited? You’d be a sister again!”_

“I already have one sister and she’s fucking mental as it is, don’t want and can’t cope with another. Especially her demon offspring. And we all know she’d document her entire pregnancy and childbirth experience through extremely graphic art that we’d all be forced to witness in another crassly named exhibition.” She visibly blanches. “The main exhibit would be her fucking placenta smeared on a canvas.”

He retches dramatically, and it’s enough for her to laugh at a frankly abhorrent possibility. _“Maybe they’d ask me to baptise the baby. I’m really good at baptising.”_

“Would you drown it in exchange for a handjob?”

It’s his turn to gasp now, pretending terribly to be affronted. _“You are an absolute monster.”_

She frowns. “Blowjob?”

 _“Done,_ ” he says immediately. Ah, well, it’s nice to know he’s just as terrible as she is, and he’s—unfortunately, still—a whole-arse _priest. “Are you nearly ready? My cab is due in five.”_

“Nearly,” she replies, applying a generous layer of lipstick. It’s so red it’s almost black, like cherries. She can see in the corner of the eye the way he takes her in, watching her movements. Later tonight he’ll have the same lipstick smeared across his face, his neck, his… “Mine is in ten.”

 _"Ah, so you’re arriving late, are you? Forgot you were such a trend-setter.”_ He runs a hand through his hair, neatly styled for the occasion. “ _Have you got your best surprised face ready?”_

She coughs, preparing herself, before widening her eyes. “Oh, gosh, father, fancy meeting you here? So lovely to see you again, how long has it been? The wedding?”

He laughs loudly. _“My God, Dame Judi Dench, is that you?”_

“Yes, it is, father. And I’m not wearing any knickers.”

_“Judi, wow—that’s good to know, but hardly appropriate for this lovely restaurant…”_

“Father, oh, what are you doing with your foot under the table?”

_“I don’t know what you mean Judi, I’ve dropped my wallet, that’s all.”_

“You dropped your wallet up my skirt? How strange!”

 _“I—”_ His voice cuts off and his face disappears off screen. She can hear some muffled sounds in the background. _“Right—thanks, Pam!”_ He turns back to her. “ _Cabs here. Text me when you get to the restaurant. And_ just _a text. As much as I love your tits, I don’t want to open a photo of them in front of your dad.”_

“I’ll try to restrain myself.” She easily has the time to take a quick snap but he’ll get the real thing later, so. She’ll save him the pleasure. “See you in a bit.”

 _“See you in a bit, love.”_ He leans forward to hang up, before pausing. _“And—standing ovary-iation.”_

“Excuse me?”

 _“As a name for your stepmother’s pregnancy exhibition.”_ His brows furrow. _“Needs a bit of work?”_

She nods, half-grimacing. He’s so fucking adorable it hurts. “Yeah, let’s say that.”

“ _Let’s hope we’ll never need one.”_

He gives her one last smile before he ends the call, leaving her with her home-screen staring back at her. Boo holds Hillary close, grinning, reminding her of how good things were before they went so bad.

Things aren’t so bad now. But, she thinks, they’re still dancing around the heart-breaking inevitable.

He still hasn’t chosen for definite.

-


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter! one note: apologies if the pronouns get confusing, sometimes its hard to differentiate when you're writing something in third person and they don't have a name! i think its fairly easy to work out but let me know if its too confusing. enjoy!

She hovers outside the restaurant for a moment before going in. The place has, unsurprisingly, a sinister kind of vibe about it, beyond the generic bland opulence and the over-priced seafood on the menu. It’s her stepmother’s new favourite not because of the wine but because it’s a battleground, and she’s fucking Boudicca wielding her passive-aggressive emotional battle-axe. There was enough blood spilled last time for it to easily qualify for that title.

She’s only here because Claire would murder her otherwise, and Claire is too anxious to refuse an invitation and potentially miss something. She’s flown all the way from Finland exclusively for the occasion, leaving a couple of days free for a pre-scheduled mental breakdown just in case.

 _(“We could get brunch,”_ she’d suggested over the phone, already visualising Claire’s withering glare on the other side. _“There’s this new place near me that you’d like. It’s called IKEA.”_

Claire hangs up after every IKEA joke, now. Doesn’t even bother to correct her.)

She pulls her leather jacket tighter round her shoulders as she steps into the warmth of middle-class hell, surrounded by women wearing _Whistles_ clothing and middle-aged men chuntering about their portfolios. A waitress takes her jacket and she feels weirdly exposed (even though she looks fucking hot, yes, really) because it never truly escapes her that her last experience here was _absolute fucking torture._

“Coo-ee! Darling! Over here!”

Breath hitched, she turns around and plasters on her best fake smile, seeing her stepmother waving enthusiastically from the bar. Her dad, perched on a barstool, moves to stand, but stepmother’s free arm reaches out and flattens him down again. Claire is wearing white, which is obviously extremely flattering but also oddly flamboyant.

(She can’t see him, but tries not to look. Claire would pick up on it.)

“Oh, darling, it’s _divine_ to see you,” stepmother gushes, kissing her on both cheeks. “You look so well. Doesn’t she look well? Black is such a flattering colour on you, I’ve said this before. Some people just do not have the complexion for vibrancy and we must stick to what we know, hm?”

She smiles tightly in response, but she’s used to it by now. Stepmother is wearing about eight different shades of red and probably had an orgasm putting the ensemble together. Typically, dad mutters something non-committal yet benevolent in greeting, leaning over to kiss her.

Claire hugs her. They’ve started doing that more often, now, especially seeing as she spends most of her time in a different country and Claire misses her more than she’d _ever_ admit. She’s more affectionate when she’s genuinely happy, which doesn’t happen very fucking often.

“He’s here,” Claire murmurs in her ear, “The priest.”

“Is he?” she pretends to look in disinterest over her shoulder. “I can’t see him.”

Claire narrows her eyes, moving back from the embrace. “He’s in the bathroom. Are you going to be okay with this?”

She flutters her eyelashes in an attempt to look innocent, unbothered. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Right.” Not a good start. Claire is already suspicious, glare stiff and accusing. “Anyway. I think we’re both going to need a stiff drink to get through this. Tequila?”

“Please.”

It’s at that moment that he wanders in, looking all ridiculously attractive in a shirt the same colour as her lipstick and his hair a little unruly. Their eyes catch for a split second and she hopes no-one around them can read into it, the underlying meaning that bleeds effortlessly between them like overflowing bathwater. She’s fucked. She’s well and truly _fucked._

“Father!” Stepmother titters, basically flooring dad in order to amble over to her favourite little pet. “Father, you remember my stepdaughter? The one that didn’t actually have the miscarriage?”

He looks at her and admittedly, he does a pretty good job at feigning surprise. “Oh, hi! Yes, I remember. Lovely to see you again.”

“ _So_ lovely to see you again,” she says. His hand lingers on her shoulder, trailing down her arm. He doesn’t kiss her, but that might be just beyond the fucking pale. “How long has it been? The wedding?”

He blinks at her. Tries to hide the smile creeping up his face. His eyes scream _don’t you dare._ “Yeah, the wedding. Must’ve been.”

Stepmother jumps between them, like she might pass away if anyone dares have a conversation with her priest that lasts longer than thirty seconds without her valuable input. “Well, the priest here has been very present in our lives since the wedding, hasn’t he dear?”

Dad grumbles vaguely from behind, nodding his head rather than answering.

“He’s my spiritual adviser, as it were,” stepmother strokes his arm, grinning wildly. He looks deeply uncomfortable and she’s enjoying it immensely. “Whenever I have a problem, he is always there. Much like God, really, except I’m not just muttering away to myself in the dark!”

(She’d been in the room when her stepmother had called him, once. It was about her dad needing Viagra. He’d found it hilarious, her decidedly less so.)

“Indeed,” the priest says, through gritted teeth. “Oh—looks like our table is ready. Shall we…?”

He gestures towards the main floor of the restaurant, looking only at her. She’s about to follow him through when Claire jolts her fiercely back.

She shoves the Tequila unceremoniously into her grip. Her voice is low, level. “You’re still fucking him, aren’t you.”

It’s not a question. It never is, with Claire. She always knows the answer. It’s how she stays in control.

“Who?” She tries, knowing exactly what she’s doing.

Claire blinks before knocking her Tequila back in one short, sharp gulp, slamming the glass back onto the bar. Her jaw swings open like a door on a loose hinge, then promptly jars it shut again, wordlessly storming off into the restaurant.

 _Good start,_ she thinks, knocking back her own drink. The taste is bitter yet warm in her throat. It reminds her of late nights in the rectory, shitty noughties music and the occasional bit of weed, laughing and kissing and falling asleep in their clothes.

If she closes her eyes, the Jacquard-print wallpaper and chandeliers and expensive carpet fades away, and all that’s left is _him._

-

To drive the knife in deeper, the seating arrangements are even the same as last time. On reflection, it’s a good thing, because it’s not as easy to do frankly obscene things with her foot when they’re side-by-side. They settle for discretely knotting their feet together underneath the table and not making direct eye contact. It’s reassurance. She’s not as alone as last time.

Claire, on the other hand, is staring at her like she’s committed a war crime.

The chatter is banal at first, and the phrase _calm before the storm_ comes to mind. Stepmother is running life drawing classes at the community college and insists she doesn’t mind lending her talents for a weekly session at the church hall (dad obediently agrees). They’ve redone the lounge at home and they simply must see it, it’s glorious. Stepmother says they have an indigo focus wall because it was mum’s favourite colour, which it wasn’t. She liked sunrise yellow. Married life is good, now, after the priest…proffered valuable advice. He steps on her toe to stop her from laughing, because _he was told in confidence._

“How is it in Finland, Claire?” Stepmother asks, in between bites of an exceptionally red steak tartare. She winces every time Stepmother stabs the raw meat, blood oozing across the off-white china. “Did I mention? Claire lives permanently in Finland now. I imagine that’s much better for the…”

“Commute?” Claire finishes, at the same time Stepmother places great emphasis on _“Divorce.”_

“Oh, the commute, of _course._ ” Stepmother nods. “But the divorce—yes, Martin is being quite unreasonable about the whole thing. It’s taken such a toll on you mentally, you can see it, darling.”

(Martin i _s_ being quite unreasonable about the whole thing, to be fair. She and the priest have mused over many a creative way to brutally murder him, as taking a life sentence would be less stress than what he’s putting Claire through. But—Jake’s fucked up enough, and whilst his Catholic morals are a bit more flexible as of late, murder might push God over the edge.)

“Actually, I’ve been doing better than ever,” Claire says and means it, “And I mean that.”

“Oh, that’s excellent, darling,” Dad says, just as genuinely. He rests his hand on her knee. “Really. Excellent.”

“Yeah, good for you,” the priest adds. She seconds it.

“I have two close friends who recently had a divorce.” Stepmother pouts, reaching out for Claire’s hand. “And one of them committed suicide over it, absolutely frightful business. So if you need to talk to anybody about it, call one of those secure helplines. If you…” She blinks, as if she’s trying to brush away tears. “Oh, the _grief._ It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

(Fucking hell, Stepmother’s wet at the mere notion of Claire taking her own life. A slut for absolute misery. She thinks back to her mum’s funeral, and how she was in her element, lapping up condolences like a fucking rabid coyote at a watering hole.)

“Thank you,” Claire replies tersely, “But I really am fine. The business is going extremely well, and Klare and I are busy renovating the flat…”

“Klare is her new beau, and before you ask, he is a man despite what the name would suggest!” Stepmother interrupts. “Isn’t it strange when life throws these odd little coincidences at us, father? Is that God’s intervention, do you think?”

“Sometimes,” he says. His feet shift under the table, knotting tighter with her own. She bites her lip. “But I think, mostly, the universe enacts these things on its own accord. God is good, but his sense of humour is questionable.”

He can fucking say that again.

“Yes. Right.” Claire shifts, uncomfortable. She’s not sure why. “Anyway—we have an amazing place right in the middle of Helsinki, the views of the city are beautiful—”

“We must go and visit, mustn’t we, darling?” Stepmother interjects, turning to dad, clearly bored of not being the centre of attention for half a second. “Maybe after…should I tell them or should you, darling?”

Oh, here it comes. The priest steals a glance at her for a moment and she fights the urge to flip him off. Claire visibly stiffens, holding in a breath. Her limbs tighten but his presence is comforting, there, next to her.

Dad opens his mouth, but Stepmother’s question is clearly a rhetorical one.

“Well, as you all know, your father and I have been married for six months now. Six beautiful, intensely interesting, magnificent months. I think we’ve learnt a lot about each other, a lot more than we ever anticipated! And that’s why we…”— _please don’t be pregnant please don’t be pregnant please don’t be pregnant—_ “Have decided to renew our vows!”

She and Claire exchange looks, and the priest chokes on air. Stepmother looks a little disappointed by the reaction.

“It’s going to be a less conventional ceremony than the original wedding,” Stepmother continues, “After all, some of my most interesting friends couldn’t make it the first time. But we thought it would be a beautiful opportunity to gather everyone together and show how our love has blossomed as a married couple.” She turns to the priest, clutching his shoulder. “And of course, father, we’d love you to officiate the ceremony.”

“Oh!” the priest says, eyes widening. “I mean—I’ve never done _that_ sort of ceremony before…” Stepmother’s smile freezes into a manic grin, “But, of course, I’ll give it a go, yeah!”

“Fantastic news,” Stepmother’s glare is unwavering. “I simply couldn’t do it if you weren’t there, father. You’re just as integral to the whole thing as my dear, dear husband and his… _wonderful_ girls.”

“Is it not a bit soon to renew your vows?” Claire asks bravely, “Lovely, mind—but don’t people usually do that after a few years at least?”

“To some couples, Claire, more happens in six months than in sixty years,” Stepmother turns to dad, clutching his hand. “And that’s exactly what it’s been like for me and your father.”

It’s meant to be catty, but it’s the first time stepmother has said something remotely poignant, something she’s had to think twice about. She’s not _wrong._

“Here’s to that,” the priest says, quietly, reaching out for the half-full bottle of wine. He motions to fill her glass. “Top up?”

“Yes. Please.” His fingers cover hers round the base of her glass in a barely perceptible moment of tenderness. No-one notices, except, well. Claire.

“I’m going to the toilet,” Claire announces, before looking her dead in the eyes. “You're coming."

Like usual. It’s not a question.


End file.
